


Control

by Eadgyth



Series: Of Wardens, Champions, and Inquisitors [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Eventual Smut, Eventually things get sort of resolved, Everything is Unresolved Here, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Tension, past emtional/psychological trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6109756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eadgyth/pseuds/Eadgyth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwyndolyn Hawke, Gwyn to her friends, is trying to walk the line between friend and lover that Anders is so desperate to hold, but an off handed and tipsy comment might be more than the mage can handle.</p><p>I can make you move against your will<br/>Don’t it make you sad to lose control?<br/>~Ari Hest, Broken Voices</p><p>Set between Acts I and II, will include reference to some Act II quests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Foreward

This story comes out of the rabbit hole that my research into Anders took me on. I did romance him in that first run through of DA2, but it was a rushed play-through gearing up for my purchase of Inquisition. And though I enjoyed his character, I didn't really get him until I added him to another fic and needed to dive into his character in order to write him. So now my Hawke and Anders get a fic of their own, and my original first POV catharsis fic is most decidedly an AU fic to my F!Handers canon play-through.

I don't have a beta reader for this and my editing skills are severely lacking. It usually takes me a while to find all my mistakes. If editing errors annoy you, this is not the fic for you.


	2. One

There had been flirting over the years since they’d met and looks, oh there had certainly been looks. The long and lingering kind, glances that were over with a flush of embarrassment when one of them was caught. Sometimes there was the occasional trail of fingers that lasted longer than was appropriate, moments when those touches came laced with just enough magic to make her shudder and him groan softly. Gwyn knew Anders was uncertain, and after what happened with Karl, she didn’t want to push him. But she did wish that he would make up his mind, all the innuendo, half caught lustful stares, and glancing touches were starting to wear out her patience.

Tonight had been a perfect case in point. She’d gone to The Hanged Man, walking into the tavern with Fenris because they’d happened to arrive at the same time. She had a grudging friendship with the brooding elf that seemed to survive on the fact they mutually appreciated each other's acerbic wit and sarcasm. Anything else that anyone, mainly Varric and Isabela, thought might have happened between them was tainted by his hatred of mages. It was a quirk she could tolerate in a friend, as much as it caused tension and a great many arguments between them. In a lover, well, she’d always wonder what he saw in her and if it would ever be enough to get over her magic.

A ruckus of laughter burst out of Varric’s rooms as she and Fenris silently climbed up the stairs. Anders, Isabela, Aveline, and Varric had apparently decided to start up a game of Wicked Grace before everyone else arrived.

Anders looked up from his cards as they entered the room and his eyes darkened as they flitted between her and Fenris. She could almost hear the accusation in his stare.

If Fenris noticed anything, he didn’t say, but Gwyn swore she saw the corner of his lips quirk into a quick smirk.

 _Andraste’s ass_ , she rolled her eyes as she folded herself onto the low draven chair across from Anders. _The two of them are worse than children fighting over a toy_.

She'd called Fenris out on his flattery once and hadn’t encouraged him since. But the lanky warrior often acted like she’d continued to pursue him, mostly whenever Anders was near. Gwyn was never sure whose attention Fenris was trying to get with the tactic, hers or Anders’, and she very much doubted that Fenris was either.

The second she reached for one of the unclaimed tankards across the table, she realized two things. One, Anders had given up any pretense that he was actually engaged in his hand of cards to stare daggers across the table and two, Fenris had slipped down in the chair next to her.

 _Wonderful_ , she thought, gulping down a rather copious portion of her ale, _just wonderful_.

There had been a handful of nights like this since they’d returned from the Deep Roads and they never ended well. Someone always said something about evils of slavery or the oppression of mages and before she knew it, Gwyn ended up the final arbiter of morality. The thing was she didn’t really disagree with either of their arguments, just their myopic obsession with them to point where they lost all perspective or sympathy for opposing views.

As Anders and Fenris continued to glare at one another, Gwyn mulled over all the possible excuses she could make for leaving seconds after arriving while she gulped down another large mouthful of ale. Despite being terribly watered down, the alcohol was beginning to make her limbs limp and languid, while her thoughts took on a fuzzy edge.

“Jeez, Hawke,” Varric looked over his cards at her, his eyes twinkling in the lamplight in a way that made her want to throw something at him before he stirred up more trouble, “I didn’t think things were that bad these days.”

“Hmm,” Gwyn lifted her brow, lolling her head into her left hand so she could pointedly ignore the staring match next to her and focus on the Varric.

The dwarf nodded at her now mostly empty tankard as his eyes caught hers. She looked down feeling her cheeks flush with the realization she’d drained her cup rather too quickly. “Ooohhh,” she drawled out the word longer than was necessary as she forced her brain to come up with a plausible excuse, “it’s just been one of those days.”

“Really,” Merrill voice popped into Gwyn’s head with a cheerfully painful ferocity, “I hope I wasn’t a bother.”

 _Shit_ , Gwyn turned towards Merrill as she took the seat next to Anders. She’d forgotten that she’d spent most of the day furtively talking to Merrill about magic as they browsed the Hightown markets.

“Ah um no Merrill. It wasn’t you I was referring to, it’s just,” Gwyn sighed as she tried to take another drink from her now mysteriously empty cup. She really should have stayed home. But earlier in the week, Anders had said he was going to be here and she never passed up any opportunity to see him outside of his clinic. Her brain finally hit upon the perfect bit of information to let fly and the words tumbled out of her mouth before she could really think about them, “Mother has decided since we’re respectable again she needs lineup some eligible suitors for me. She spent most of the afternoon speculating on prospects of various family and the eligible sons.”

Anders practically choked on his ale, holding back tears in the corners of his eyes as Gwyn watched him try to not splutter the watered down liquid all over the table. For his part, Fenris only managed a strangled grunt.

“Well, sweet thing,” Isabella’s voice flounce over her cards accompanied by a catty grin, “that bit of information has certainly set a few knickers in a twist.”

Blessedly, for Gwyn could have kissed the woman, Aveline intervened, “Are we here to play cards or discuss Hawke’s marriage prospects? I do have other things I could be doing with my time.”

The game resumed though Anders folded rather quickly after that and it wasn’t long before a new round was dealt. Isabela made sure to refill everyone’s drinks, but the mood of the game remained subdued despite Merrill’s attempts at perky asides, Isabella’s ill-timed humor, and Varric’s push for another round of storytelling one-upmanship.

Gwyn looked absently over her cards. She wasn’t the best player when it came to Wicked Grace, preferring Diamondback, but she wasn’t here solely for the game. Her companions had kept her grounded over the years since she’d arrived in Kirkwall and she appreciated their presence in her life. Growing up on the run, she hadn’t had many friends or at least not the sort of friendships she had now. It had always been too dangerous for her to cultivate anything beyond a casual acquaintance. Even after her father had settled the family somewhat permanently in Lothering, she hadn’t made any lasting friendships. If she thought about it, that was probably part of why Carver resented leaving Ferelden. He had thrown himself into doing everything he’d been tactically forbidden from doing when they’d been younger. It had made it that much harder for him to be in her shadow when they escaped the Blight.

“Earth to Hawke,” Varric’s voice forced her to look over her cards again. He was looking at her with a wide grin like he’d caught one of her tells and he winked as he tossed his head toward the pile of coin on the table.

Sighing she looked at her hand again, it was dismal and she’d already lost interest in the game before she’d started playing. She shook her head, “Deal me out, Varric. I’m going to find the privy.”

 A glancing look of concern crinkled the dwarf’s features and she just shook her head softly, relieved when he went back to his hand. She unwound herself from her seat and walked slowly out of the room. Gwyn could feel eyes on her back as she left, but she didn’t bother to see who was watching her leave. At this point, it could have been anyone of her friends.

* * *

 Anders waited as long as he thought prudent before excusing himself from the table. With Fenris involved in the game now, no one really seemed to notice that both he and Gwyn would now be absent. The elf always seemed to up both the stakes and the focus of what had started out as a series of friendly card games. After Gwyn’s wry announcement earlier, Anders wasn’t keen on staying long with Fenris at the table as the elf was even more likely to clean him out with his focus so fractured.

He could feel a disapproving rumble from Justice. A sensation the spirit often had in regards to Gwyn despite all she’d done for the mages in Kirkwall over the years. It seemed to Anders that the spirit disapproved more on the basis of the quantity of Gwyn’s assistance, rather than the quality. They both knew she’d gladly do more, but Anders was firmly against the idea of putting her at any more risk. The spirit didn’t understand his concern for her and found Anders feelings and regard for her a distraction, as well as a lost opportunity. Anders, for his part, would never forgive himself if she got hurt or worse because of his involvement in the mage underground. She’d done enough already as far as he was concerned and no amount of Justice’s grumblings would change his mind on the matter.

Of course, as firm as Anders was on the subject, Justice still attempted to push the issue. If it had been anyone else, even Karl, Anders might have relented. It was a testament to the feelings she stirred in him that he’d managed to hold out so long against the spirit. He often wondered if he might regain more of himself if he simply stopped trying to hold her at arm's length.

He shook his head, the loose strands of his dirty blonde hair shifting in front of his eyes. It did no good to dwell on things he couldn’t have and didn’t deserve.

“Giving up already?”

The words, with their odd synchronistic with his thoughts, startled him more than he would have liked to admit. He forgot Gwyn could move as quietly as Isabela when she wanted.

Looking down the hall, he saw her standing a mere foot from him and leaning leisurely against the wall. She’d worn her ebon waves down tonight, and her hair pooled around her face and shoulders like a lustrous shadow. Anders fought his twitching fingers that longed to sink roughly into her locks and pull her hard against his month. Gwyn must have noticed his hesitation and thought he was ignoring her because she huffed sharply as she pushed away from the rough-hewn walls of the Hanged Man.

“Is your mother really trying to marry you off?” he found his voice just as she was about to walk by him.

“I’m not sure,” her words were measured and slow as if she was thinking each of them over, and her cerulean gaze was distant, “but I don’t think she’s really thought it through.”

He shifted on the balls of his feet, a hundred protests welling up in him and breaking against Justice’s scorn to crest meekly on his tongue, “Huh.”

Gwyn crossed her arms in front of her chest, eyes flashing sharply, “Is that really all you have to say?”

Anders pinched his eyes shut. There were so many things he wanted to say, but he didn’t dare.

“Coward,” she spat the word at him.

It was an anger he knew she didn’t mean, born of her frustration with him, but Justice didn’t understand the difference. Before he realized what he was doing, he’d grabbed her by the arm and spun her hard against the wall next to him. Her pained “oof” was the only thing that snapped his control back into place.

“Don’t,” he breathed the word at Justice between clenched teeth as he hit his fist against the wall next to her head. He felt the spirit retreat, but not draw away completely.

“Anders,” Gwyn’s voice fluttered against him as her hand slipped along the rough edge of his jaw. It never ceased to amaze him how she took his situation with Justice in stride, as if it was an everyday occurrence and not something to be feared, something that made him a monster in the eyes of so many.

“I’ll only hurt you,” he said finally, knowing it cut both of them a little more each time he said it.

“I don’t care,” she leaned towards him, “I don’t want...”

“You should,” he cut her off leaning away from the temptation of her mouth, “you really should.”

Her eyes flashed and darkened again, “Why do you get to make all the decision about this? Is it because you’re older than I am? I’m not some child Anders.”

“No, you’re not,” he sighed, pulling himself away from her before he gave further ground to his desires, “and that’s part of the problem.”

He needed to leave before things got any more out of hand, and things were definitely getting more and more out of hand were Gwyn was concerned. Anders didn’t know how much longer he could hold out against her. After almost three years of trying to keep a tight lid on his feelings for her, he felt ready to burst. Realizing that he could lose her to someone else tonight had almost done him in as it was.

Choosing to clip his way quickly through the tavern and out into the night, he didn’t bother to say goodnight to Varric or anyone else. It was a course of action of which Justice finally approved.


	3. Two

Anders didn’t see her for several days. In all honesty, it could have been longer. He’d buried himself under Justice’s and his own need to work out the finer points of their manifesto. If he was honest, he was avoiding the possibility that he’d finally pushed Gwyn hard enough away from him. And though Justice bristled at the thought, he was almost gratefully for the sudden influx of patients as the latest pestilence raged through Darktown. It gave him another reason not to seek her out, another way to drown himself in anything other than his desires and his needs.

He barely registered the door to his clinic opening, only giving it enough thought to ascertain whether Justice felt there was a reason for alarm as he continued to write.

“Varric says you haven’t been by to see him in a while and he’s heard rumors of a sickness going through the undercity,” her voice sounded cool like she was trying hard not show her emotions. It buzzed against his ear. “Anders, are you even listening?”

He looked up from his desk to find her looking down at him with her hands on her hips. There had been a lull in the patients seeking his aid that afternoon and he’d taken the opportunity to write. He tried to recall what she’d said but it had been a distant burr in his ear.

“I’m sorry, what?” he decided it might be better to give up the pretence that her words had actually registered.

Gwyn rolled her eyes swooping down for a basket she’d apparently set down at her feet before shoving into his lap, “Here, you’re eating this and I’m not leaving until you do.”

“Surely, you have better things to do?” he said rather more loudly than he meant. The smell of fresh bread coming from the basket reminded him that it had been hours since his last meager meal. He hoped vainly that his abruptness had covered the loud growl from his stomach.

“Nope,” she said with a clipped crispness, picking up his daily patient log. Next to his manifesto, it was the only other writing he did.

His hands snaked into the basket and his finger wrapped around a still warm roll. It was easy to eat slowly with her standing so close and sucking thoughtfully on her lower lip. She might not be very adept at healing, but she had a knack for triaging his patients and noticing connections that he sometimes missed in his haste to help the refugees who came to his clinic.

She flipped back through his notes a second time before she set them back down and rolled up her sleeves, “Right then.”

“Uff urry,” he asked around a mouthful of bread.

Gwyn didn’t seem to hear him, or she was pretending hard that she hadn’t. Instead, she walked around the clinic. She poked through his cabinet of herbs and simples like she was compiling a list. She spoke with the few patients too sick to leave the clinic and tended to their smaller complaints. She cleaned off the empty beds and dumped out buckets of piss and other fluids. In short she did everything that he’d been meaning to do before he’d gotten lost in his writing. As she started heating water to scrub down the tables, he decided that he really shouldn’t take advantage of her generosity any longer. It only made him want her more.

“You don’t have to,” the words died on his lips as she turned sternly at him. It was such a shocking look on her, matronly, like he was an offending child. He broke contact with the dark indigo of her eyes, and fumbled for a wedge of cheese at the bottom of the basket, “I mean, not if you don’t want too.”

“Uh-Huh,” the sound stabbed out at him and then she went back to what she was intent on doing.

He hadn’t simply watched her work after that but joined her quietly until she finally started giving him direction. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost his coat, his light cotton tunic sticking to his sides from all the exertion. His eyes wandered over to her as he finished cleaning off his hands, noting the wispy tendrils of hair clinging to her face and neck.

She wiped her own fine boned fingers on a towel she’d tucked into her belt as she finally stopped and surveyed the basket she’d brought with her, “You haven’t finished your food.”

Anders shrugged. He’d lost his appetite somewhere in the rhythm of their work, too focused on the quiet companionship of it to remember his hunger, “I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Liar,” the word came with a smile that tugged at the corner of her eyes and set them sparkling.

“I most certainly am not,” he set his hands over his heart as if she had struck a mortal blown as the infection of her smile crept up on him.

“Really?” Her brow arched, and she tucked the left corner of her lip under her teeth as her arms settled unbelieving over her chest.

“Truly.” he took an open armed step towards her. It wasn’t his best idea, but she was hard to resist when that much mischief and warmth danced in her eyes.

“Hmm,” she snatched up the basket off his desk and ambled over to what passed as his larder, clicking her tongue in a sharp staccato when she found it bare.

He wandered slowly towards her as she began filling empty selves with what remained in the basket. Most of it was dried meats, hard rind cheeses, and jars of various preserved foods along with a bushel of early apples.

“You didn’t have to go to all…,” Anders never finished the thought as she turned sharply towards him and pressed a finger swift and hard against his lips.

“I did,” her words sounded tight and clenched as she pulled her finger away.

Something desperate and wild rose up in him and he snatched up her retreating hand in his. He cradled her fingers, pulling them gently up, and brushing the lightest of kisses across her knuckles, “You didn’t, not after what I said.”

The barest hint of scarlet ran across her pale cheeks as she drew in a shuttering breath, “I care about you, Anders. It’s not something I can easily change, even if you wish I would.”

The words hurt, lancing him as if they were a blade, and he deserved them. He’d been an ass.

“I know,” he lowered her hand, expecting her to let go, but her fingers stayed twined in his. It was an unexpected kindness.

She looked away from him and out over the clinic, “Do you think the worst is over or do you think you will have more patients?”

“It possible,” his thumb slipping lightly over hers as he thought. “This does feel like the lull at the center of a storm to me.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow then,” she pushed suddenly away from him, slipping her hand out of his. She scooped up the empty basket and didn’t look back at him until she was almost at the doors that lead back into Darktown. Her smile was a thin, winsome line and her eyes had lost a fair bit of their shine, “Make sure you get some sleep, alright?”

“Of course,” he nodded. Watching her leave was always laced with a quiet desperation that tripped along his tongue, even as his lips remained shuttered against calling her back to him. He never told her how any sleep he’d get now would be restless. Though he’d had fewer dreams about the darkspawn since his joining, he knew that images of her would flood over him again tonight, crashing against Justices disdain and his own inability to let them go.

* * *

  _Maker’s flaming ass, that was stupid_ , Gwyn raged at herself as she tromped quickly away from Anders’ clinic.

She’d managed to ignore her anger and her physical need to make sure Anders was okay for a solid fortnight. It was the longest she’d ever gone without seeing him at some point during her day. She was beginning to feel like maybe she could walk away from her more romantically inclined feelings for him and move on from a relationship that seemed determined to go nowhere. But then Varric showed up in her estate that morning.

“You seen Blondie lately?” Varric didn’t have to say anymore than that before she was pulling on her boots, tucking a few discrete vials of lyrium into their specially padded belt pouch, and gathering up everything she could think of that wouldn’t spoil within a day's time from her pantry.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Varric said gruffly from behind her, “Nug shit, and here I thought the two of you finally managed to do something about all those lingering looks you keep giving each other.”

She’d normally have some sort of smart remark for Varric, a bit of sass to match his own or a sharp snap of sarcasm to crack around his humor. It would deflect his penchant to pry into her love life, “You haven’t heard anything?”

Varric scratched at his chin, “Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as Blondie’s usual list of problems goes. Though Aveline said something the other day about there being rumours of some kind of sickness running through Darktown again.”

Gwyn did bother saying much as she decided to fix a small fest to lay in the basket over the more shelf-stable goods. It had been a baking day for the cook and there were sweet rolls that were still warm from the ovens. She made sure to wrap a fair number of them in a towel, they were one of the few foods she knew Anders to gorge himself on, more so if they were still slightly warm.

“You want company on this mission of yours to make sure Blondie don’t perish under the weight of his own paranoia and charity?” Varric was rubbing an apple on the sleeve of his coat.

She hefted the basket with a strained ease. It would probably be better to take Varric with her, he could needle Anders to eat something while she made sure he had food in his larder. If Darktown was rife with sickness again, then there would be at least a few patients and families lingering about. Anders was an accomplished healer, but the details of running the clinic sometimes got away from him, more so since they’d come back from the Deep Roads. Gywn knew Lirene had one of her daughter’s helping as often as she could spare the girl, but the girl didn’t always know the best ways to help worried relatives or even how to properly disinfect the examination tables.

“Uh, Hawke, you are going to bring all that stuff to Blondie, right?” Varric’s amused voice startled Gwyn out of her thoughts.

Getting a better grip on the basket, she began walking towards the kitchen door, “Would you mind walking me down, Varric? I can exactly swing a staff hauling all this.”

Varric stuffed another apple into his curiously bulging jacket pockets before giving her a flowery half bow, “Lead on, serah.”  
Gwyn found that Varric had anticipated all the different problems they’d encounter on the way. After working with Athenril and then everything she’d done to gather up enough coin to join Bartrand's expedition, her reputation as Kirkwall’s resident problem fixer was usually enough for her to walk through Darktown without too much trouble. Carrying an obvious load of fresh food through the most poverty struck area of the city, however, presented an entirely new challenge. Usually, she came with smaller items, things that could be stashed in a pouch, but after see the state Anders had let himself get into when there had been an outbreak of cholera in the city last summer, she didn’t want to risk being caught unprepared.

Varric’s pockets produced a variety of things as they walked the now familiar path to Anders’ clinic. Most of the items were small treats, pieces of fruit and such that got pinched quickly from his wide hands he offered them to the orphans and urchins that nicked in alongside them. There were a few heartier items, small meat pies and cured sausages, that when to a few of the older children and a handful of adults that inquired about were they were going. Luckily, all they had to say was they were bringing supplies to the healer and the huddled masses of Darktown parted in their wake.

Even though her position gave her access to more resources to filter Lirene’s way, and her stake in Hubert’s mining venture meant that there were fewer refugees living penniless and destitute on the streets, a pang of guilt always dogged her whenever she walked through Darktown. Anytime she walked through the warren of tunnels and old mining shafts that made up the damp underbelly of the city, Gwyn always felt like she should be doing more.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come in with you, Hawke?” Varric tossed what Gwyn could only assume was the last apple at the beggar that sat just outside the clinic.

Gwyn shook her head. In hindsight, she should have taken Varric up on his offer. She’d kept herself busy in the clinic, trying not to focus on Anders. Throwing herself into cleaning with more enthusiasm and patience than she’d ever given the activity as a child, but then Anders decided to help. It slowly changed her broody attempt to master her emotions and ignore her feelings into a companionable silence, reminding her of all the reasons she enjoyed Anders company.

And when he grabbed her hand…

_Maker’s mercy, it isn't fair_ , she thought fiercely, but then she’d always been a glutton for punishment. Nothing was ever simple with her, as her mother was want to complain, and she always had to do things the hard way. As she pushed open the door to her estate, Gwyn twisted up the corner of her lips into a smile that once made Varric comment that he didn’t know whether to be very scared or just terribly sad. Once she was inside, she wrangled Bodahn and Sandal to help her gather supplies for tomorrow, hoping the work would be enough to keep her from doing something stupid.


	4. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for the end to this chapter, speculation that Anders made for a captive audience while in solitary.

Anders looked like he had in fact not slept, and though it made Gwyn grit her teeth, she refrained from pointing it out. Instead, she made a pot of strong tea and left a mug of it on Anders’ desk while she organized his supplies with Lirene’s daughter, Alewyn. She made a note to talk to Varric about getting her a larger portion of lyrium next week from his black market contacts. Of all the things she’d shuttled down that morning with Fenris’ and Varric’s help, lyrium was the hardest to obtain and the one thing she hadn’t brought with her in a quantity that would make a dent in Anders’ severely depleted supplies.

She thanked the Maker that the lull in patients held out for most of the morning, but she’d have to be here every day while the sickness lasted to make sure Anders didn’t push himself too far and end up suffering from any imbalance to his mana. It was a risk, staying this long in his proximity never ended well as it wore away her patience for the limbo they were in, but if nothing else it would provide her opportunity to practice her healing skills. In a pinch, she could feed her mana to Anders if he had need of it. Not that Gwyn imagined he’d agree to it if he had a choice as it was a rather intimate spell, but his lyrium supplies might not give him any other option if things ended as badly as they had last summer.

Gwyn shuddered at that thought. They’d almost lost Anders that summer, and not to the Templars, but to his own destructive behaviors and an unforgiving crowd of refugees who didn’t understand the physical costs of magic.

“You’re frowning again,” Anders was looking up at her from his desk, his mug of tea halfway to his lips.

“You’ve let your supplies dwindle too far down,” she carefully replaced the cover on the chest Anders used for his lyrium.

“Hmm.” She held her breath as the right corner of Anders' mouth lifted, bringing a dancing mischief to the warm brown softness of his eyes. He took a small sip of his tea before he continued, “Maybe I do that just to have an excuse to visit Varric.”

“Varric?” Gwyn walked over and picked up the patient records, pretending they were the reason she was standing near him. She knew she shouldn’t bite, but that smile always drew her in. “Is there something I should know about you two?”

Anders chuckled, a deep throaty sound that made her look at him, giving up all pretense that she was trying to be productive.

“Well…,” the word was as far as Ander got with whatever bit of snark he was going to throw as someone pounded loudly on the doors of the clinic.

For a breathless moment, she gripped her mana waiting on the edge of a spell for the door to burst. She heard the crash of earthenware chip and shatter against the stone floor.

“Healer!?” the question followed another round of weaker thumps against the door, “Healer, please, are you there?”

Gwyn looked down at Anders, just barely catching the receding glow of Justice. His shadowed eyes looked up at her and he shook his head. She let go of the breath she was holding and went to open the door.

The afternoon passed in a grueling blur of sickness. Gwyn assisted as much as she could, boiling water, healing and cleaning smaller hurts, but it was far from enough. Many of the patients who sought Anders out that day were too sick to leave their hovels. So she spent much of her time holding down the clinic and organizing a set of runners to keep Anders supplied with lyrium and informed of where he was needed.

For all that she needed to practice more complex healing spells, it was better that she stayed behind. It ensured that Anders got to patients sooner and it meant there was someone to help those that stumbled to his door while he was away. Not that Gwyn could do much. During such epidemics, it was rare that those who attempted to physically come to clinic survived long enough to make it to Anders’ door, but at least, they had the small comfort of someone to greet them and make sure they did not pass unremembered and alone. By the time nightfall settled over Darktown, she felt as though she’d seen more death that day then she had in the years she spent working for Athenril and gathering the coin to join Bartrand’s expedition.

Just after dusk, Anders had walked back into the clinic looking slightly dazed after his last house call. He looked wrung out, his hair falling limply over his face. The dark circles under his eyes seemed deeper than they had that morning. She didn’t have to ask him how things went, she’d already sent Alewyn to Aveline a full two candle-marks earlier.

“You should sit down,” she walked over to where he was pacing a slow circle. When she saw the dazed and distant look had not left his eyes, she laid a hand on his shoulder.

He looked at her blankly, his usually warm brown eyes the color and tone of hard packed earth, “Huh?”

She cupped the side of his face, the skin of her palm pricked by his semi-permanent stubble. As his eye slipped closed and his head leaned into her hand, she whispered soothingly, “You should sit down Anders, I can take care of things from here.”

His head shook against her palm, and as his eyes opened Gwyn saw the heaviness of death in them, “The bodies…”

“Shhh, you need to rest,” she swept her thumb over his cheek. “I’ve already sent word to Aveline that if she doesn’t want a city-wide epidemic then she’ll need to send guardsmen down here tomorrow. She’ll know which ones to send with Donnic.”

Anders' head ticked up shaking slowly back and forth. and away from her hand, “I don’t deserve you.”

Gwyn bit back her sigh, letting her hand trail down his arm till it hung once again by her side, “Do you know what my father said was the worst thing about being in the Circle?”

She waited while Anders crinkled his face and squinted at her. It was rare, after all, that she spoke of her father. She watched a small light rise up in him, a tiny whisper of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “You mean aside from the quietly sanctioned torture?”

“Hmm, well, there was that,” Gwyn tucked a stray hair behind her ear before meeting Anders stare, “but what bothered him the most was how his fellow mages started to believe all the things the Chantry says about them. Even the strongest of them doubted that they deserved whatever scrap of happiness they’d managed to gain, whatever amount of respect they had of their peers, whatever amount of pride they had in their talents. It was one of the few things he was ever serious about, that Bethany and I should never feel the need to apologize for our existence.”

“He sounds like he was a good man,” Anders’ voice was a tight whisper as Gwyn felt him take her hand.

“He was. You would have liked him,” she gave his hand a tight squeeze, as she tugged him to an open and clean cot, “Now sit down and get some rest. Merrill will be here soon, and we can handle things here so you can get some sleep.”

Anders settled slowly down on the cot, his fingers still tangled with hers. She gave them another squeeze before turning away with the intention of making him a pot of chamomile tea. On her second step away from him, she felt his arms wrap around her, pulling her into his lap and burying his face into her neck.

She tried not to sit too stiffly in his lap, nor too comfortably, unsure of where he going with this impulse, After a moment of listening to him breathe heavy and with a slight raggedy hitch, she fell back on old tactics and found her voice warm and wry, “You know Anders, this isn’t the best way to discourage me,”

“I know,” the words brush softly against her collarbone, “it’s just last night the dreams were…”

_Well, that explains a lot_. After the expedition to the Deep Road, Gwyn was intimately familiar with the sleeping habits of her make friends, Varric and Fenris included. When she’d left Kirkwall with them, she would have pegged Fenris as being the most troubled sleeper. That idea was quickly shattered the first night Anders woke the camp with his screaming. She turned her head towards his, “The nightmares again?”

He nodded.

She sighed, wrapping her arms around him in an awkwardly angled hug before leaning her head against his. The tea could wait.

* * *

Anders felt himself hovering on the edge of sleep as he held her. The warmth of her, the rhythm of her heart, the drumming of her breath against his cheek, it all conspired to soothe him. Even Justice was unusually quiet, and that was a rare thing indeed.

It had been a long night, followed by and even longer day. The dreams had started out pleasant enough, but twisted into something darker, reminders less pleasant times in Kinloch Hold. He’d dreamt of that poor girl again, his mind warping the sound of her tears to what he imagined Gwyn would sound like.

The dream was always the same. The girl was crying again. He could hear it through the walls of his cell, a stifled sob like she had her knuckles pressed into her mouth. Maker knows there wasn’t much else for her to use down there. He’d remember when the Templars had brought her in, how brutal they'd. His thoughts would stray to how the First Enchanter though he had them nicely in hand, but all that meant was that there was a delicate balance that needed to be maintained. Sometimes mages got preferential treatment, like solitary confinement after escaping for the seventh time. Other times it meant that an example had to be made.

He’d dream of those sobs eroding his patience until he screamed at her to shut up. It never did any good at his cell was enchanted to let sound in, and not out. He only woke when he either heard the Templars come back she began to scream or he began to crack his head against the stone walls of his cell.

Gwyn shifted on his lap, and his arms instinctively tightened around her.

Her sigh was soft, concerned and worry laced, “Anders you should lay down.”

She was right, he should sleep. Maker knew he was tired enough to sleep without nightmares plaguing him, but he couldn’t manage the effort to care as he held her. It wasn’t fair, either, this moment of weakness, but he was having a hard time caring about that either.

“Just a little longer,” he whispered, lips barely brushing the skin of her neck.

“Alright,” she lifted a hand from his shoulder and stroked his cheek, adding another layer of comfort, another reason he wanted to give in, another reason he needed to let her go, “Just a little longer.”

He didn’t let her go until Merrill wandered into the clinic wide-eyed and trailing red thread half a candle-mark later.


	5. Four

Anders woke to Tevinter curses and huffing grunts that posed as laughs.

It had been an arduous week, but the sickness seemed to be running out its course and fewer of his patients were succumbing to it. Today was the first morning he hadn’t woken to either the sounds of sobbing or retching. In fact, the only noises that did reach his ears were the ones to which he’d woken.

He tried to think of a reason to rise as the banter behind him continued.

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you, Elf. Blondie’s liable to wake up any moment now.”

“Vishante kaffas, I’m not even sure why I’m here.”

“Heh, same reason I’m here because Hawke asked. Now help me move this table out of the way.”

At the mention of Gywn, Anders thoughts wandered to the image of her standing in the pale amber light of clinic, her dark hair spilling around her shoulders and her long fingers clutched tightly around a steaming earthen mug. Her help had been indispensable, of course. It had kept him from pushing against the upper limits of his magic and suffering any of the ill effects of his healing. Still, the ease of her company and the warmth of her companionship was wearing away his resistance. For all that he had managed not to drag her into his lap again, he still caught himself looking at her with a smile tip-toeing up his lips and a tight affection rising up in his chest.

When the table in question was half dragged across the stone and hard packed floor, Anders gave up on pretending that he was still sleeping. He sat up, his coat slipping down off him as he ran a hand through his tumbled out hair.

Varric and Fenris were apparently rearranging his examine tables and had yet to notice him. On the other hand, Gwyn and Merrill, who had been quietly chatting when he’d fallen asleep, were nowhere to be seen.

Most of the company had been in and out his clinic all week. Aveline had brought down a company of guards to clear out the bodies. Varric had come in with a delivery of lyrium. Isabela had done something though he wasn’t entirely sure what or how helpful it had been. Fenris had mostly stood at the door and glared at Anders whenever he had the chance. Merrill had helped lighten his patient load, dealing with the less critical cases that were well beyond Gwyn’s promising, but still rudimentary skills.

He didn’t always agreed with Merrill about magic and there were days that both he and Justice could barely stomach the idea that she was an unapologetic blood mage, but he was grateful for her help. Aside from Gwyn, she’d been the only other person to provide substantial help when it came to keeping the residents of Darktown alive.

“Well, looks like someone's finally awake,” Varric always managed to sound like smooth whiskey, woodsmoke, and tumbled stone this early in the morning.

Anders twisted to look through the window of his elbow as he wrangled his hair. Varric was dusting off his hands as he looked at Anders with a wide grin while Fenris stood like a rigid pole, his arms firmly clapped over his chest.

“Where’s Hawke?”

Varric picked at something on his duster, then rubbed his knuckles against his sleeve before answering, “Aveline came looking for her about an hour ago. Something about the Viscount wanting to see her.”

The briefest flicker of panic twitched through Anders, but Varric seemed unconcerned by Gwyn’s summons to the Viscount’s keep. He stood up and slipped into his coat, “You don’t have to stay, I doubt I’ll have any patients today.”

“Good,” Fenris grunted the words and then turned on his heel to stalk quickly out of the clinic.

“Maker’s ruddy balls,” Varric shook his head then glared half-heartedly at Anders, “You just had to give him an excuse didn’t you?”

“What?” Anders shrugged. He was never in the mood for the elf’s accusatory stares and often wondered why Gwyn tolerated the former slave when he so clearly despised everything she was.

Varric leveled a thick finger in Anders direction as if he could be held solely responsible for Fenris’ departure, “Hawke asked us to stay, Blondie. Said she’d seen Templars in the area the last few days. Wanted us to make sure you didn’t have any trouble.”

Shrugging his coat back on, Anders walked over to the collection of crates and planks that served as his pantry and kitchen, “It’s not your problem, Varric.”

“No, but Hawke thinks you’re cute, Blondie, and I’ll be damned if I let her down,” Varric strolled back into Anders’ line of sight, the bright hazel of his eyes practically glowing with mirth. He clapped a hand on Anders’ shoulder blade, “Besides, who else is going to swap increasingly wild and ridiculous stories with me.”

“Well, when you put it like that, I suppose I could use the company,” he found himself smiling, aside from Gwyn, Varric was one of the few people he smiled genuinely around, “if only to stave off the boredom.”

“Prefect,” the dwarf swatted Anders’ back, “now get your gear, we’ve got some shopping to do.”

“Are you serious,” Anders looked down at Varric with wide eyes.

“Do I look serious, Blondie?” Varric’s forehead was scrunched as he shoved a gloved thumb over his shoulder toward the rickety cabinet that held Ander’s supply of reagents. “Half your supplies are gone from the load Hawke and I brought in last week. She would have dragged you out of this lovely piece of Kirkwall real estate if she hadn’t been called away. Now, are you going to make me stand here all day?”

Anders chuckled, “Ah, Varric, I didn’t know you cared.”

“You and me both kid. Now let’s go,” Varric turned and began to walk toward the door, not waiting to see if Anders was following. “Andraste's flaming ass, I’m going to need a drink after this.”

Anders shook his head as he quickly grabbed the few things he’d need to wander about Kirkwall’s various markets. It was easy to feel like his old self around Varric, even if it felt forced at times or as if he was looking at who he was through hazy glass. He’d tried to talk about it once with Isabela, seeing as she was the only person who knew him from his time in Ferelden. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but he’d ended up with nothing from the conversation. It was the last time he’d tried talking to the pirate about anything serious.

It was different with Varric. The dwarf might not have understood all Anders’ motivations or his merger with Justice, but he listened. Varric carved the story out of the tangled mess Anders’ felt he’d made of his life and made it shine again. He’d asked questions, laugh at the absurdities, and offer rare advice. Anders may have kept some of his stories to himself, like the time he’d spent with Karl or his year in solitary, but whatever story he told, Varric listened. It was a gift that Anders treasured more than gold.

Despite Varric’s disparaging remarks about his supplies, Anders didn’t need much more than a peck of embrium and elfroot. It wasn’t long before they’d exhausted their mutual tolerance for the Lowtown markets and found themselves in the Hanged Man.

“Are you sure you’re not part fish, Blondie? I don’t think I’ve ever heard quite a whopper as that one.”

Anders swirled his drink, “Don’t believe me?”

Varric held up his hands, “Now, I wouldn’t say that, but you have to admit it’s a bit hard to swallow.”

“What can I say,” Anders shrugged, taking a drink of the amber liquid. He may not be able to enjoy it the way he used to, but there was still comfort in a drink shared among friends, “being ripped from your family and thrown in a Tower full of strangers is oddly motivating.”

“Hmmph,” Varric set down his drink, sloshing it onto the rough planks of the table. “From what I’ve heard about Lake Calenhad, Blondie, you’re lucky you made it to shore in one piece.”

Anders opened his mouth, about to offer a remark about how he was probably too skinny to be tempting to anything that might have lurked in the lake, but the words died on his lips as he caught how the sun was casting long smokey shadow through the high windows of the tavern. It was late, and he’d wasted most of the day with Varric. If he wasn’t careful, he’d miss the meeting tonight.

“Something on your mind Blondie?” Varric’s voice needled into his brain. “You’ve gone awfully quiet.”

“Huh?” Anders shook off the welling impatience from Justice. “Oh, just thinking.”

“About?”

“You didn’t need to do this Varric,” Anders looked down into the dregs of his ale.

“Nope,” Varric smacked his lips as he took another deep drink from his tankard and then used it to gesture sloppily at Anders, “but we both know you needed it. You were starting to become a hermit down in that clinic of yours.”

“Yes,” Anders allowed himself a thin corner of a grin as he took a final sip of his drink, “well, I am an apostate.”

Varric sat up in his chair, seeming instantly sobered, and leaned in toward Anders, “Are the Templars really stomping around Darktown?”

Anders shifted his shoulders as he picked his words carefully, “They seem to be mostly interested in the refugee camps. I haven’t had any poking around near the clinic in over a year.”

The dwarf sat back, his hazel eyes scanning Anders for a minute, before he took another long drink, “Well I suppose that’s something. You staying for cards tonight?”

“Not tonight,” Anders shook his head, pushing back from the table. He needed to leave, there was too much to plan tonight and he’d already wasted enough time, “Thanks for the drink, Varric.”

Varric raised his tankard in a sloshing salute, “Anytime, Blondie.”

* * *

Gwyn walked slowly down the steps of the Viscount’s keep. She’d had the nagging feeling of late that things had been just a little too quiet in Kirkwall lately, but she had hoped she’d be proven wrong. After meeting with the Viscount, she’d wished she hadn’t indulged in the passing thought or had knocked on a forest’s worth of wood for just having the notion.

A flash of white caught her eye just as she stepped down onto the streets of Hightown. She looked off through the crowd of nobles and found Fenris stalking through them. _Trust him to leave the second my back was turned_ , Gwyn winced at the thought and the agitation that came with it. She’d asked Fenris to stay at the clinic till she got back and the elf had given his word.

Sighing and shaking her head, she wandered down through the Hightown markets. She couldn’t make Fenris get along with Anders any more than she could make Carver forgive her for taking up more than what he saw as her fair share of their father’s time. She hoped at least that Varric had stayed. Anders needed a break from the clinic, and he’d never take one if left to his own devices. It was one Anders’ many traits that reminded Gwyn so very much of her father. As her mother so often reminded her, she may have inherited his temperament, but she never had her father’s ghosts, just their shadows.

Gwyn pressed her eyes closed as the memory of her father’s deep rumbling laugh echoed through her. Maker’s mercy, she missed him. Seven years on from his death and a stray thought of him wrapped in the turn of a head, a half-recalled phrase, or just a moment of thought could still bring tears to her eyes. Gwyn knew mother still mourned him, but the strain of Bethany’s death and Carver’s determination to join the Templars had set a wider wedge between her and her mother. It made her cling and root herself in her friends more, looking for that safety and understanding that once came so unreservedly from her father.

She shook off her cobwebbed thoughts, dwelling on the past never accomplished anything as Carver had been found of saying. The Viscount had given her a job to do after all. Gwyn turned down a side street, set her shoulders, and marched off towards Fenris’ manor. If the elf couldn’t be bothered to do what she’d asked of him earlier then she’d be damned if she let him off the hook when she had an Arishok to visit.


	6. Five

“Are you mad?” Anders demanded. There was a sharp agitation to his voice, and ever so slight shake to his hands as he poured out a measure of whatever tonic he’d concocted. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that Qunari concoction is?” 

Gwyn watched Anders pass a draught to Varric, who looked at the grayish green liquid as if it might slither out of its container and bite him. She tried not to breath too deeply, “I have a passing notion, yes.”

“Then why didn’t you come get me sooner,” Anders looked down at her at he passed Fenris another vial. The elf accepted it with a grunt and gulped it down with a quick and grimacing swallow. 

Since the moment Gwyn had stumbled into the clinic with Fenris, Aveline, and Varric in tow, Anders’ had worked frantically. He’d healed them with a proficient alacrity, even as he muttered curses under his breath. Once he’d settled them into a rough horseshoe on a set of empty cots he had begun to distil a potion with a frantic fury. Now his eyes were wide and raw rimmed as they glared at her, waiting for her answer. 

She wished her chest didn’t feel so tight, she would have huffed with her own frustration. The fact was she had tried to find him after dragging Fenris out of his mansion. She had every intention of bringing Anders along with her to see the Arishok, but he had been unusually absent from his clinic. Unsure of when he’d be back, she’d simply proceeded to track down Javaris. When things quickly deteriorated after that, she didn’t think she could afford to wait. After all, it wasn’t like she knew where he’d gone though she had suspicions. After running down Javaris and then running down the elf he’d spoken of, her suspicions regarding his whereabouts would only lose them time they could ill afford to squander. And between meeting the Viscount, talking with the Arishok, and then finding Javaris, the whole fiasco had already cost her a day as it was.

“You weren’t home,” she shrugged, wincing with her slight attempt at a deeper breath. Even after Anders healing and a portion of his tonic, her lungs still ached and her chest burned.

He stepped back, looking slightly dazed, “You should have checked my logs, sent a runner...”

“I did,” she interrupted, lungs once more aflame. “You were at a birth, I wasn’t going to pull you away from something like that. We didn’t…”

Her lungs felt like they were bursting or trying to break out of her chest as she began to cough. She heard Anders curse softly as he quickly recovered from whatever thought he’d lost himself in while she’d lied, and then he was pressing another vial of tonic into her hands.

“Fasta vass,” Fenris sprung up and spat raspingly, grabbing Anders by the forearm and tugging at him sharply. “You were not here, abomination. Hawke did her best. I suggest you leave her be before you questions make her worse.”

“Alright, everybody calm down,” Varric stood, his voice slightly hoarse as he leveled his finger and began wielding it like a finely tuned instrument, “Elf, stop antagonizing Blondie. Blondie, stop antagonizing Hawke. And, Maker’s ass, Hawke stop trying to talk.”

Aveline stifled a cough, “Varric’s right, Hawke. You were the one who ran through that  mess the longest.”

“Is that true,” Anders was ashen as he turned back towards her.

Gwyn shrugged, taking another slow sip of the draught Anders had given her. It still looked like the scummy residue left over by shades and tasted like sun-baked dirt and wildflowers, but it soothed the burning in her lungs. “Someone had to close all those barrels full of gas.”

Anders scrubbed his hand over his face as if it could erase the worry lines Gwyn noticed at the corners of his eyes. He measured out three more vials of his olive colored concoction, and handed them to Varric, Aveline, and Fenris in turn, “Right. You three should be fine. Take these in case the coughing starts up again. I will check you all tomorrow.”

“I noticed you’ve left Hawke off the list of those free to go, Blondie,” Varric grimaced at his vial as he tucked it into his coat. Gwyn suspected it would be going down some unused sewer drain the second the dwarf was clear of the clinic.

“Hawke will need to stay, I need to make sure that there isn’t permanent damage to her lungs and she’ll probably need to be observed overnight,” Anders paused, looking over at Aveline, “There were four barrels of this gas?

As she took another sip of the tonic. Gwyn folded her hands over her chest and flicked her eyes between Anders and Aveline. 

“That’s right,” Aveline nodded her head, catching Gwyn’s eyes as she spoke. 

Gwyn smiled, board and saccharine, at the guard Captain, hoping it belied her irritation as Anders pressed on, “And she closed all of them.”

“She did,” Aveline winced in sympathy as Gwyn landed a swift kick on Anders shin.

“Ow,” Anders yelped, finally turning back towards her, “Blazes, Hawke, what was that for?”

“You could ask me, Anders,” she wheezed, straining to make the words come out as more than a dull hiss. “I am sitting right…” Her lungs decided to beat themselves against her chest again, and she slumped forward with the force of her coughs.

“Andraste’s ass,” Anders cursed as he sat down on the cot she occupied, snatching up her shaking hands and pressing the half-empty vial against her lips. She could feel the Fade twisting around his fingers, as his mana settled the ache in her chest long enough to take a final sip. “This is exactly why I didn’t. You need to stop talking.”

“Somehow Blondie,” Varric hefted Bianca over his shoulder, and secured her back into place along his back, “I don’t think you’re going to have an easy night of this, Hawke doesn’t strike me as a very cooperative patient.”

“Yes, well,” Anders gave Varric a half-cocked grin, even as worry creased his brow and darkened his normally light brown eyes, “I suppose I could just tie her to one of the cots if she gets any ideas.”

“Hah,” Varric snorted, nudging an opening between the cots. “You know I’d pay to see that. Still don’t think you’d come out ahead, but I have a feeling it’d be an interesting show.”

“If you two are quite finished, I have a barracks to get back to,” Aveline rolled her eyes as she belted her sword back around her waist and picked up her shield. “Are you coming Fenris?”

Gwyn watched as Fenris looked at her. His hands were loosely balled at his sides, just short of become fists. He shifted on the balls of his feet, taking a half step back towards her. She shook her head. She knew he was worried, but she didn’t know if she could handle more than Anders’ concerns tonight. That and the idea that Anders and Fenris would make through the night with reserved civility was laughable.  

Eyes narrowing to thin green slits, he swore under his breath and stormed off behind Aveline. Gwyn would have heaved a sigh if her lungs weren’t starting to burn again. She’d have to see him in the morning. If nothing else, it would reassure him that Anders hadn’t roasted her in some fit of magish pique.

Anders sat silently as the others left, his face a neutral mask. For a long moment, he stared off along the path Varric and the rest took out of the clinic. She was about to nudge him with her knee when he turned towards her, eyes still distant and unfocused, “You’ll need to take off your coat.”

She pulled off her gauntlet and glove before slipping out of her gray quilted coat. He pressed one hand just below the line of her collarbone while the other planted itself firmly between her shoulder blades. Gwyn could feel him pull on the Fade and his mana dive into her body. She tried not to shiver at the sensation, which always reminded her of a sudden chill. 

It was always interesting to observe him when he used his gifts as a spirit healer. There had been a few occasion where, if she looked at just the right moment, she swore she saw a ragged looking man in heavy armor standing just behind Anders, arms wrapped around his chest and a stern look on his face. She always assumed this was a reflection of Justice, standing sentinel over Anders as the mage opened himself to the Fade. It comforted her in a way, to think the spirit watched over his host. At other times, she could sense the type of spirit that answered Anders’ call for aid. Most felt like the warm embrace of a parent after you’d lost your favorite toy. A few gave the impression of the peace Bethany had once described to Gwyn after she had returned from an afternoon in meditation. A handful gave off an air of determination and resolve that Gwyn found oddly comforting as it was reminiscent of her father. 

As the fire in her lungs died down, Gwyn felt something brush her cheek. She shifted her gaze slowly away from Anders’ half lidded concentration and along the line of her lashes. If she moved too quickly she’d lose track of the spirit. Again it brushed her cheek, a lingering tender touch like the slide of hand along a jawline just before a kiss.

Well, this is new, she thought as something indistinct, yet blazing with the care and comfort of a warm embrace, flickered in the corner of her vision. It faded quickly as Anders let go of his mana.

“There,” he slumped back further onto the cot, drawing his hand slowly away from her. He rubbed his temples as his eyes roamed the clinic, “That’s all I can do for now. You’ll need to take it easy for the next week or so. There shouldn’t be any lingering damage, but I’ll need to heal you again before your lungs are repaired enough to heal on their own without scarring.”

Gwyn slipped her coat back on, her tunic was a soft thin cotton and not a sufficient barrier against the drafts that plagued the clinic, “Can I…”

“No, you can’t,” Anders snapped forward, gripping her forearm. 

She looked down at his hand, how the fingers dug deep into her skin and then turned to look at his face. There was a hallowed gauntness to it that Gwyn hoped was just a play of the dim light on his features. His eyes, though, made her wish she could just hug the man without him startling like a cornered cat.  

He pulled his hand back, as if suddenly aware of her gaze, and sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, “Well, at least not without me. I’ll need to set up a brazier for steam and be on hand if you start coughing again.”

Swallowing her instincts, she grinned and hope it would allay his fears, “I was only going to ask if it was okay for me to talk now.”

“Oh, sorry, I assumed you wanted to leave when you pulled on your coat.”

“Anders, I may be a bit foolhardy when it comes solving the cities problems, but I’m not about to ignore your recommendations,” she spoke slowly testing the amount of breath she could take with each word. After a brief pause waiting to see if her lungs to start aching, she added, “And in case you hadn’t noticed, it can be horribly drafty in here.”

“Huh,” his head bobbed slightly and the slightest grin pulling at the corner of his lips. “I suppose I’ve just gotten used to it.”

She let her smile widen as she tried to think of something flip to say, but Anders stood up sharply and scattered her thoughts.

He held out a hand, helping her up from the low cot, “Come on, you should get some rest before I heal you again.”

* * *

 Anders sank back against the makeshift door of his cobbled together room. She was in his bed. It was even likely that she was mostly undressed. The very idea of it had him fighting his emotions, his desires, and Justice all at once. He rolled his head against the rough planks of the door as he fought against the betrayal of a low and husky groan.

She’d lied about him being at a birth. He wondered if she knew, or suspected that he what he’d really been doing earlier that night while she was slowly being poisoned. Maker, he hoped not. He didn’t know if he could handle the worry that swelled in him at that thought. Even at Kinloch Hold, he’d known that the Templar’s could be indiscriminate with their cruelty, but it was the women that haunted him the most. From the stories he’d heard from the few mages he’d helped smuggle out of the Gallows, the Templars here were just as bad, if not more lascivious in their abuses. He shuddered, driving away the cries that normally only haunted his dreaming mind. He didn’t want Gwyn to join their number, to add her voice to the choir of his nightmares. It was the one thought that seemed to draw a flicker of agreement from Justice though Anders still got the impression that the spirit would still rather he was more honest with her.

He winced thinking of some of the things he’d said to her. She was so much stronger than the credit those rushed words gave. She deserved to know his past. She deserved to make her own decision about whether or not she wanted to help him with his more clandestine activities. But he was having trouble untangling the knot of guilt and fear that tripped up his tongue whenever their conversations skirted the issue. It was condescending of him, and Maker’s balls, he was better than all the patronizing crap he’d heard out of Templar mouths over the years. Still, he couldn’t seem to work through the panic that overtook him when his mind could so easily detail all the things that could happen to her if she was ever caught with him.

Slipping down the plane of the door, he braced his hands against his knees. He needed to move, to darken his lanterns, to lock and bar the doors of the clinic, to cast the half dozen wards that set him at ease enough to attempt sleeping. But his hands were still rattling even as he dug his fingers into his thighs. His chest felt like it was banded with iron and the room felt uncomfortably small, in spite of its vaulted ceiling.

Justice, or maybe his own fears, pushed forward an image of Karl’s tranquility marred face and then twisted the features until they became Gwyn’s.

“No, never,” he stood, fists curled tight enough that he marveled when his nails didn’t break the calloused flesh of his palm and began his nightly ritual.


	7. Six

He dozed. It was just one of those nights. Sleep was teasing him with its warm embrace, inviting him in with its rich promises of rest, and tempting him to relax. Then as quickly as it seduced him, sleep left him bleary-eyed and staring at the dim phosphorescence of his ceiling. Somewhere in the early hours of the morning, he’d given up and sat down at his desk. There was no rescue there either. The words no matter how well they flowed through his head became muddy piles of nug shit on the page, and the ground around him was sprouting a field of crumpled paper.

Anders threw down his quill, adding another large inkblot to an already smeared and smudged page.

Leaning back into his chair, his eyes wandered to the door hidden at the back of his clinic. Gwyn had protested when he’d offered her his bed and had almost refused to follow him into the room. In the end, he only won out because he related how much of his stores he’d have to deplete to ensure she would be breathing in a diffusion of the tonic he’d just finished preparing. She had switched tactics after that, trying to get him to lay down with her. Trying to convince him to see it as just another time they’d shared a tent when it was so far from being anything like that for either of them.

His ears perked at the sound of a cough. He stood. It was about time he checked the braziers anyway.

The state of his bed had him standing just inside the doorway with a bemused half-smile pulling at his left cheek. Gwyn was curled, no cocooned, within his blankets. His heaviest coverlet was hooded over her head, clutched tightly in her fingers, and buried under her chin. Her knees looked as if they might have been pulled up to her chest. It was hard to tell how her limbs were arranged under the utter mess and mound she’d made of his sheets and summer quilt. He couldn’t help smiling and staring, it was adorably cat-like of her.

She coughed again, tossing in the mass of blankets. Anders held his breath, waiting for her to settle so he could unobtrusively check the water levels in the diffusers he’d set over the braziers.

Instead, she shot up, flames crackling along her fingertips, “I don’t know how you got past Anders, and if you’ve hurt him I’ll rip your heart out, but right now if you take one more step you’re a dead man.”

Shit, he’d forgotten what a light sleeper she was, “Hawke, l...it’s just me.”

“Maker’s mercy, Anders! You know my night vision’s shit! You’re lucky I didn’t just cast without thinking about it,” she grabbed a threadbare pillow behind her and chucked it at him. Chuckling softly, he dodged the poorly aimed projectile as she flicked her hand and the candles on his bedside crate lit with a hissing poof. She crossed her arms over her chest and peered at him, “You haven’t slept.”

He shrugged, moving into the room, “It happens.”

She shifted in the nest of blankets that pooled around her hips, watching him as he moved from brazier to brazier with an unfocused thoughtfulness. He noted how she was still in her coat, “Still cold?”

“Huh? Oh, maybe a little,” she tucked a knee up and leaned an elbow on it.

“It’s odd, I’ve only spent a little over two years in the estate, and I feel like it’s making me soft. If it wasn’t for mother, I think I would just taken rooms at the Hanged Man. It would have felt more like home.”

Anders set down his pitcher on the crate he used to store his clothes and stood at the end of the bed, “What was it like? Growing up in Lothering.”

She gave him a small smile, “You’d have to ask Carver, I was already fifteen by the time we’d settled there. Still, it wasn’t any better or worse than anywhere else we’d settled.”

“How often did you move?” He settled himself onto the thin flock mattress.

“It felt like we were always moving, like some odd human version of a Dalish clan,” Anders watched as she stretched her hand out towards him and pulled lightly on the Fade, each finger illuminated by a tiny flame. The flames flickered, twisting into thin ribbons before each winked out in turn. “I came into my magic when I was six and then Bethany came along and came into hers almost as early. When we were young and still learning control, I don’t think we stayed anywhere longer than a year, two if we were fortunate.”

He looked off past her, remembering his life before the Templars came for him, “Still, to grow up without the Circle and the Chantry defining everything you are, I can’t even imagine.”

“Oh, we still lived in their shadow,” there was a bitterness in her voice that brought his focus back to her and stirred Justice’s attention. “Every step outside the door of whatever hovel, shed, or cottage we live in came with a set of rules. Every night came with the knowledge that we could be woken at any point and told to hide or pack, no questions asked. Every day we didn’t have to worry about a Templar patrol or an overly nosey neighbor came with a mixture of relief and fear of what might happen next.”

Justice flared, another reason, another injustice, another way the Chantry and the Templars infringed on the lives of mages and their families. Anders twisted a corner of his wool blanket in his hand, “I suppose I’ve never thought about the costs.”

Gwyn sighed, leaning forward to prop her chin on her knee, “It wasn’t all bad, it just wasn’t idyllic. For a while, it was rough, Bethany had a lot less control of her talents at first.”

Anders let a bit of silence settle and found that it was not strained or awkward. Maker, he missed this. After another moment, his curiosity won out, “And you? How did you take to your magic?”

“Hmm,” he watched her look down at her other hand, which was worrying at a stray thread in the quilting, “I apparently took after father. Picked things up quick. Bethany began catching on, too, after a bit. I think it both relieved and frightened father, though.”

“How so?”

“I think it reminded him of all the things he had to do while he was in the Circle, all the ways he had to slow himself down so he didn’t stand out. It gave him a kind of satisfaction to know we’d never have to go through that. But, I think it terrified him. It worried him. Thinking about what could happen if the Templars ever did catch on to us,” she looked up from the stray thread that had held her attention and tucked her unbound hair back behind her ears. “What about you?”

“Huh?” He knew what she was asking. Justice knew and pushed at him.

“What was your childhood like?” She asked again, softly and then hesitated, “That is, if you don’t mind me asking.”

He did, almost, though mostly because of the way it pulled at Justice. Anders could hear the spirit in his voice as he slowly began to speak.

“If you’re born with magic, if you don’t have a family that will protect you at all costs,” he let out a long breath. Justice stirred in him, pushing harder on his tongue. He turned away from her, looking into a darkened corner of his room as his hand tightened around the blanket he’d been holding, “Then the Templars hear about it. They search your little rat-spit village and find you. Maybe your father even helps them, too terrified of your magic to even look at you. They tell your parents they’ll be thrown in prison if they ever ask about you, stripped of their rights in the eyes of the Maker. And if you run away, they hunt you down. Again and again and again.”

He felt her hand pressed down on his, fingers wrapping as best they could around his fist and her thumb sweeping over his wrist, “I’m sorry, Anders. No one should have to go through that.”

“It’s the bloody Templars,” he sighed, his shoulders caving in and down as Justice seemed to settle at her touch. “You know how it is. They don’t see us as people. They don’t care that I was someone’s son… someone’s lover.”

“You still miss him, don’t you?”

Anders turned back towards her, “What?”

“Karl,” she said his name like it was the most natural and obvious thing in the world that Anders had been referring to him. “You still miss him.”

“How did you...?”

“Little things,” still holding his hand, she spoke softly as he struggled to finish the question. “The way you held him as he died, the way you looked when we were leaving the Chantry after, the way you're always a little distant when the years turns back to that day. It reminded me of how mother acted when father died.”

Looking down at her hand, he let his fingers unfurl, turning his palm into her as a quiet smile tugged at the corners of his lips, “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, you’re almost as bad as Varric. I doubt the Divine can take a shit without him hearing about it.”

“Just observant,” she chuckled as her thumb went back to its soothing sweep. “And Varric doesn’t give two figs about the Divine, he’s too busy juggling the Carta, the Coterie, and the Merchant’ Guild.”

“True,” he let his eyes travel up the length of her arm to her face. “It doesn’t bother you that I’ve… been with men?”

“No,” she said the word firmly, no doubt hiding in the lines of her face or in the shadows of her eyes. “Would it bother you if I said I’d been with other women?”

“No,” he returned her fervor, as he met her gaze. It was always surprising to him that he always knew where he stood with her. Even though he’d seen her sarcastic streak, she never directed at him unless he shot first. “I’ve always believed people fall in love with a whole person, not just a body. Why shy away from loving someone just because they’re like you?”

“Exactly,” she grinned, big and sloppy, until it widened at the edges and turned into a yawn.

He squeezed her hand, “You should get some more sleep, it will be dawn soon.”

“You need to sleep, too, Anders,” she answered his squeeze with a grip. “This bed is more than big enough and it certainly doesn’t look like sleeping out in the clinic is working. At this rate, you’ll be worthless at healing later today.”

Anders felt his protests die on his lips. She had him there. It had been two nights since he’d managed a decent night's sleep. And he did sleep better in his own bed, when he slept at all. He rolled his head as he sighed, “Fine, but first, we’re making sense of this rat’s nest you’ve made of my sheets.”

* * *

She woke tangled in thin sheets and tucked against Anders’ chest. The steady rhythm of his breathing told her he was still asleep and she didn’t dare move.

The light filtering into the room from the high windows was hazed and gray, but it couldn’t be more than an hour past sunrise. She had this horrible habit of waking with the sun. It didn’t matter when she stumbled into bed, once the sun crested the horizon she was awake. She considered it a horrible side-effect of her peasant upbringing. It certainly wasn’t something she would subject Anders to if she could help it. After healing everyone last night and then having to heal her again, he’d looked wrung out. There wasn’t anything pressing at home for her to get back to anyway. The Viscount and the Arishok could wait another day, or at least until later that afternoon after what she’d went through to solve the mess they’d made. And other than a few letters she still hadn’t read, and a few social invitations she’d only politely decline, she was looking forward to having the day to herself.

Anders mummered something into her hair, and she felt his arm tighten around her. She tensed, wondering how he’d react to waking with her in his arms. They certainly hadn’t started the evening, or well morning like this. After untangling his sheets, Anders had insisted sleeping on top of the under sheet and tucked in his own blanket. Not wanting to make him uncomfortable, she hadn’t argued. She did, however, take off her coat.

How she ended up with her back pressed against his chest, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, and his head at just the right angle for his breath to tickle along the back of her ear was beyond her. She knew she could be a bed hog and queen of the blanket pile as Caver liked to tease, but she’s never woken in anyone’s arms before. Of course, she’d never stayed long enough in a lover's bed to afford the opportunity.

Gwyn swallowed, hoping to stifle a cough she felt tickling the back of her throat. _Maker, I don’t need that thought_ , she allowed herself a small huff. It was apparently the wrong thing to do. Her lungs erupted. She curled in on herself, shaking with the force of her coughs. They didn’t burn as they had last night, but they still took her over, bending her to their will.

She felt more than saw Anders shift in the bed. The coughing seemed to die back, but then she tried to take a deeper breath.

Hands slipped under her jittering shoulder and dragged her upright as Anders settled her against him, “Gwyn...Hawke, focus on my breathing.”

His mana pushed out, soothing her as she tried to focus on the rhythm of his chest. It seemed to take forever, but her coughing finally subsided. His breath brushed her ear, “Don’t try to talk yet, just lean forward a bit.”

She nodded, drawing her legs up to sit with them folded at the ankles and her knees butterflied up. Anders shifted around her, one knee at her back and the other following the bend of her left leg. His hands ghosted just a hair above her skin, following the curves of her chest and back as his mana unfurled. Gwyn let her eyes slide mostly closed and tried hard to think of Carver glaring at her, his lips curled with disgust and disdain. There was something incredibly intimate about the way Anders moved his hands over her. After adjusting to the subtle sensation of his non-touch, she peeked at him through her half closed eyes.

Crazed lines of blue tore along his face. It something she usually associated with Justice pushing to the fore, but his eyes were still a clear focused orche. There was a hazy rose shimmer just off his right shoulder. Gwyn wondered if it was the same spirit from last night.

Ander slumped back on his heels, breathless as he spoke, “There, it’s the best I can do right now.”

“So,” she took a deep breath, feeling the slight rasp to way the air move in and out, “more healing later?”

He nodded, slowly. She noted the circles under his eyes and limp way he sat.

“Alright,” She swung herself over the edge of the bed.

“Gwyn, what are you doing?” His voice was heavy, full of a resigned tiredness.

“Opening the clinic,” she swept up a leather tie from off the bedside crate and tied back her hair. Anders shook his head and began to move.

“No,” she said the word firmly as she tugged her coat back on and watched the questions bloom in his eyes, “you are going back to bed. I can handle it, Anders.”

He opened his mouth as if to protest, but then it became a long stretching yawn. Laying back down, he rubbed a hand over his eyes, “Promise, you’ll get me if anything serious come in.”

“I promise.”


	8. Seven

Fenris was waiting for her in the clinic as she left Anders room. He stood just inside the doorway, the lyrium in his skin burning brightly in the dim light. Gwyn almost felt sorry for him, but the elf should have known better by now. At least, this time, he hadn’t stepped on a paralysis glyph.

She dispelled the wards, taking care to unravel them slowly, letting the residual mana find its way back to Anders instead of just absorbing the traces. It took longer. Anders had set more glyphs than usual, but every bit of mana that returned to him would help stave off any imbalance and ease his exhaustion. By the time she’d finished, Fenris looked like her wanted to hit something.

“Good morning, Fenris,” she let her grin settle wide across her face.

The elf shifted on his heels in the doorway before looking sharply at Gwyn, “So, are you his now?”

“Well, barring your horrible choice of words,” she sucked on her words, blowing them out slowly and trying not to let her temper flare, “that’s really none of your business now is it, Fenris?”

“The abomination is not a safe man, Hawke,” Fenris glared at her with his verdigris eyes and stepped ever so slightly into her guard.

“Neither are you,” Gwyn huffed, blowing stray wisps of her hair out of her face as she pulled her arms over her chest as the heat of his body pressed against her and make her realize how thin her shirt was. “Neither am I for that matter. In fact, our entire band of merry misfits are not exactly the type of people you bring home for dinner with the Viscount.”

“True,” a smile quirked at the corner of Fenris’ mouth. “Still, I would not wish to see you hurt.”

“I know,” she said the words quietly, thinking of all the ways she was hurting already. Shaking off the thought, she gave Fenris a thin grin, “And while I appreciate the sentiment, I can take care of myself.”

“Really?” Fenris arched his brow and turn his head slightly to the side. “You took needless risks last night, Hawke.”

“Not you, too,” Gwyn rolled her eyes as she slumped against the frame of the doorway. She heard this particular lecture from both Aveline and Varric on the way to Anders clinic last night. “Look, we all agreed on it. I needed you, Aveline, and Varric to keep those crazed mercenaries off me while I laid in spells from the edges and got the barrels taken care of.”

Fenris huffed, mirroring her posture on the other side of the wide doorway, one arm wrapped disapprovingly across his chest while the other cast out his frustration like the scattering of seeds, “We merely agreed, no one could think of anything better.”

Gwyn resisted the urge to roll her eyes, “Look, we all made it out, Fenris.”

The elf jutted one of his taloned fingers at her, “Not before you began seeing things.”

“Yes, well,” she shrugged, looking down the murky warren of sewer tunnel and old mine shafts the made up Darktown, “not everything we get up too can go off without a hitch,”

“Ha,” Fenris’ laugh barked out crisply. “Does it ever?”

“No,” Gwyn turned back towards the lanky elf, and let her voice go quiet, “I suppose not.”

Fenris’ brows knitted his forehead and he shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. His eyes flicked up, caught her own, and then flicked away again.

“So,” Gwyn ventured into carefully into the silence between them. “Did you really come all this way just to check on me?”

“I was…,” Fenris paused, lips drawn tight as if he was weighing the words before he spoke them, “concerned.”

Gwyn shook her head, “You know, Fenris, Anders is a better man, a better mage, and better healer than you give him credit for.”

“Hmm,” Fenris’s lips narrowed and thinned like he’d tasted something sour, “And he has shown a disturbing lack of judgment, letting a demon possess him.”

“Spirit,” she corrected.

“Spirit, demon,” Fenris waved his hands, sweeping the words out before him, “it matter’s not. He is a mage and an abomination. It makes him as dangerous as my old master, if not more so.”

Gwyn snorted, “Anders is hardly Denarius, and it does.”

“What?”

“It does matter,” she let her hand fall back against her sides, hoping she didn’t sound overly defensive. They’d had this argument often enough, “spirits and demons aren’t motivated by the same things.”

The elf looked her over, eyes narrowed in their appraisal. Gwyn meet his gaze and wondered how much farther Fenris would take this discussion today. They’d been edging around a broader, possibly painful discussion of magic for a while now. He settled his arms over his chest, “I can see I will not win this.”

“Probably not,” Gwyn flashed him a wide smile that had him rolling his eyes and muttering softly under his breath. She pushed away from the door jam, “Look, Fenris, I can’t make up for all the horror you’ve seen and been subjected to at the hands of your master, but I hope you’ve at least learned to trust me.”

Fenris huffed, “I...am...trying. You are certainly not what I expected…”

“For a mage?” she finished his thought with another wide grin, glad Varric wasn’t here for once or she was sure there’d be some sort of snarky remark or narration from the dwarf.

“Yes, well.” Fenris shrugged, turning from her smile and inspecting his greaves with an uneasy intensity.

Gwyn bit her lip, it was hard to know when to push and when to pull back when talking to Fenris sometimes. She took a cautious step toward him, “You know Fenris, I’m not really expecting your whole outlook on magic overnight. In fact, I’d be a little worried if it did. But I’m glad you are trying.”

The elf picked something off the back of his gauntlet and waved it away a faint smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Gwyn took it in and looked back into the clinic.

“So, are we going to lurk in the clinic’s doorway all morning or could you stand to come in for some tea?”

“Tea, would be agreeable,” Fenris’ shifted alongside her, and she caught the way his eyes scanned the room out of the corner of her own. “Where is the mage?”

“Asleep, hopefully,” she made her way to makeshift hearth at the back of the clinic and pulled back the lid of the kettle, noting the clear water that lay within before setting it back on the fire, “I am hoping to coax him to rest a while longer. He’s about as useful as leech stuffed full of boneset right now.”

“Interesting image,” Fenris leaned against the trestled bench that served as Anders kitchen.

“Hmm,” Gwyn poked through the small cupboard Anders’ used as his larder looking for the jar of tea he kept there. It was a strong Antivan blend that Isabela found for him shortly after the pirate had become part of the group. She had a feeling Fenris would enjoy it as just as much she and Anders did. “Well, he’s even less of a morning person when he’s this run down.”

Fenris huffed behind her, “You know a surprising amount of the mage’s habits.”

Gwyn stood upright and set the jar of tea down, “Fenris, is that a subtle shade of jealousy I hear?”

“It..is...as I said before,” Fenris ducked his head, the warm umber of his cheeks darkening with his blush, “I have concerns.”

“Hmm,” Gwyn picked the jar of tea leaves and Anders’ the heavy clay glazeware teapot before bustling back over to the hearth.

Fenris surprised Gwyn by staying through most of the morning and helping her open the clinic. He even ran a few errands for her, mostly to check in with Varric and let her mother know she was still alive. They didn’t speak much throughout the remainder of the time he spent in the clinic, but the silence never felt awkward or strained. A small victory in her book.

* * *

“How did you dispel the wards?” Ander looked at Gwyn over the crazed rim of his mug. He had woken sometime after mid-morning, much to his surprise and Justice’s faint disapproval, feeling better rested than he had in days.

“Hmm?” Gwyn looked up from the pile of herbs she was preparing for the various unguents, poultices, potions, and tonics Anders used to treat the less fortunate of Kirkwall.

“This morning,” Anders set his mug down slowly, marking that it was to the right of his glass retort and hoping he didn’t dump a measure of anything into later, “I could feel you dispelling the wards, but the mana reverted instead of being absorbed or dispelled.”

Anders tried not to stare as Gwyn paused in her work, tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, and ticked her head to the side as her eyes softened, gazing out into the room, “I’m actually not sure how to describe it. I just untangle it and let the mana revert instead of absorbing it. Father wasn’t even entirely sure what I was doing, just that it helped when we had to leave somewhere in a hurry and he was exhausted from all the spells he’d used hide our trail and keep us safe.”

“Huh,” it was strange to think, that after all his years in the Circle, there was still a lot about magic he didn’t know. “Could you show me?”

Gwyn seemed to snap out whatever thoughts she had been caught up in and looked at him a slow cat’s curl of a grin spreading across her face. Anders almost groaned, he knew that look. Justice stirred giving off the impression having one’s ears flicked.

“Alright,” her eyes sparkled like sunlight glinting off the bright azure of mountain lake. Anders waited for the other shoe, “but only if you promise to come up to the estate after for supper.”

Justice poked at him nattering away at all the things they had to do, but Anders ignored him. He knew he wasn’t going to win either argument, besides he knew that today was baking day at Hawke's estate and if he played his hand right he could return later with a basket of baked goods for his patients.

He picked his tea back up, smiling over the edge of his cup before taking a small sip, “Deal.”


End file.
